Editor’s note: This article is part of a new column called “Farm Wife Chronicles.” In this column, I will share lighthearted stories from my experiences as a brand-new farm wife.

Flour coated my previously spotless kitchen. It was all over the countertops; scattered on the floor; and coated my hands, apron and even my forehead.

Normally, a mess like this would send me into a spiral. However, this occasion was different. It was lefse day!

Lefse is a delicacy in my Norwegian family and in my densely Norwegian pocket of Wisconsin. It has been a tradition to make this potato-based flatbread around Christmastime for many generations in my family. And I always knew I would help keep that going.

Secret recipe

Before I could dive in, I had to beg my brother, Ryan, for his secret recipe. Growing up in a Norwegian area, we had the opportunity to exhibit our homemade lefse at the local county fair. In doing this, Ryan perfected his lefse recipe, and he swore to never share it.

That is, he swore to never share it until I begged and pleaded with him to let me have it. “Then, you won’t have to make a bigger batch to share with me,” I offered, hoping he would bite the bait. It worked, and he quickly rattled off the recipe over the phone as I tried to jot it down.

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Making lefse is a meticulous process. From blending your potatoes to the right consistency to rolling the dough out to just the right thickness and keeping it on the griddle just long enough to get some golden burn marks, there are a lot of places where you can go wrong.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” my sweet husband, Ryan, asked. Yes, I know: having two Ryans in my life gets confusing.

“No, I’m all good,” I fired back. I was in the zone, ready to prove that I was worthy to uphold this sacred family tradition.

Flour flew across the kitchen. My dogs stood at my feet, ready to catch any dough that may fall from the heavens. Ryan cautiously watched from the next room over, silently praying for everything to work in my favor so as to avoid a meltdown.

And luckily, it did work in my favor. The lefse turned out perfect.

Slice of home

I would be lying if I said I don’t get the occasional bout of homesickness being away from my parents and siblings. I had this vision of going home once, maybe twice a month like I did when I was in college. But time slips away, just like I knew it would, and I don’t go home nearly as often as I would like. However, whipping up a batch of lefse offered the same comfort I get from visiting the homestead.

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As I bit into that first piece, rolled to perfection with butter and cinnamon sugar, I was taken back to my kitchen. I watched as my brother, only a boy in this vision, threw together the ingredients to make lefse for the county fair. My mom supervised, only stepping in when Ryan needed her. This felt like home.

Although traditions like this may seem like a hassle, they also could be exactly what you need. If you are like me and need that glimpse of home to cure the homesickness, I encourage you to keep these traditions going strong in your family. The mess is worth it. Trust me.